


Altered Itinerary

by thehobblefootalchemist



Series: Like Calligraphy on Scrap Paper [1]
Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Gen, because I owe it to my most beloved rarepair to write something for it, established Classic Cliche friendship, possibly one of the most self-indulgent uses of a prompt ever recorded, referenced Amethyst Ocean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10940826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehobblefootalchemist/pseuds/thehobblefootalchemist
Summary: My response to the prompt "Sam drags the Ghostwriter to a goth bookstore".  The first work in a series taking place in a universe wherein Jazz and Writer became first acquainted, and then later good friends, during her early years of college.





	Altered Itinerary

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is pretty much what it says on the tin! I love everything about the idea of Jazz and the Ghostwriter forming a bond and have finally just gone and done it and started a whole world brimful of headcanon in which it happened. I've already written a lot more for this as well, so more works will be added periodically in a nonlinear narrative that maps out how their relationship evolves across Jazz's lifetime.

Had he possessed one, the Ghostwriter would have been checking his watch. Lately he was not accustomed to having to wait outside the Fenton Portal for very long before being allowed through, yet today found him floating with mounting impatience on the wrong side of its ecto-resistant barrier. And—seeing as the dimension he currently occupied did not possess anything remotely resembling solid ground unless one was entering a lair—he was not even able to tap his foot upon anything.

He got odd enough looks around this place as it was. No need to add “uselessly moving a limb back and forth to imitate human emotional expression” to the list of reasons the other ghosts had to stare.

But gods, he was getting frustrated, and even a little worried. For one, the longer he floated here the greater the chance was that someone was going to come along and attempt to ‘join’ him on his way through to the Real World. There were plenty who would have no qualms about ambushing him for such a chance, even assuming the Ghostwriter did not initiate hostilities first. For another…he had no ideas about what in the world could be keeping his contact on the other side so busy.

“It’d be just like the universe,” he muttered, glancing about with more than a little bitterness at the endless green void surrounding him, “to cheat me out of the bright spot to my week.”

When he turned his eyes back to the more vibrant, speedier swirls of the portal, however, his expression brightened a touch: it had finally opened for him.

Of course, true to form, the vindictive delights of fate had plans other than to allow Writer to simply enjoy his day without any caveat. Any positivity he’d been feeling fled right back into the Ghost Zone when he’d passed fully through the portal and saw who in fact had just allowed him through—and had allowed it most begrudgingly, judging by the rather spectacular arguing that was still taking place.

“Excuse me,” he broke into it icily, rather not appreciating being talked about as if he were not in the room. “But where is Jasmine?”

The ghost boy and his gothic friend paused in their dispute long enough to spare him a glance, at least. Danny was the more incensed of the two, crossing his arms in apparent protest of the ghost’s presence there, and he appeared to need to chew his words before speaking. “My sister,” he replied at length, emphasizing the relation, “got called away today. Some university phoned this morning, something about an essay on ghosts that they might want to publish.”

The Ghostwriter knew precisely the one he was speaking of—he had in fact helped the Fenton daughter proofread it. “So you’ve taken over her shift guarding the portal.”

Danny answered even though strictly speaking he had not been asked a question. “Yes.”

The writer’s eyes narrowed at his tone. “And you didn’t want to let me out.”

“Also yes,” Sam said, speaking up at last. Judging by her body language she was as frustrated with Danny’s behavior as the Ghostwriter was becoming. “In spite of the fact that Jazz specifically asked him to.”

“Well he’s a ghost!” Danny cried, as if that were reason and explanation enough for his opinion, no questions asked, full stop.

“Yeah, a trait that you share,” Sam pointed out with the air of a woman who’d highlighted that fact several times already in recent minutes. She rolled her eyes, before giving the writer an apologetic look.

The Ghostwriter was glad that at least _someone_ of Team Phantom had noticed that he didn’t deserve the same level of suspicion and accusation as some others of his dimension. He rather thought he’d proven himself to their eyes many times over in the past year—hell, the entirety of his time in the Real World he’d held back from using his keyboard, which was no mean feat to accomplish for a ghost so tied to his powers.

“I agreed to let him in,” Danny grumbled, though resentment broiled in every syllable. “But,” he continued, rounding on the writer and jabbing a finger at him, “with conditions. You’ve got to do something for us.”

Writer arched a brow. Very, very generously ignoring the fact that Jazz had long ago decided that he needed no such proviso to come through, he decided to play along. “And what is it you think you can obtain from me?”

“Research materials. Plasmius managed to release a ghost we’ve never encountered before through his portal, and we need help figuring out what its weaknesses are so we can take it down.”

The ghost’s eyebrow was in danger of disappearing into his hairline. He had an idea that he knew very well what was being obliquely asked of him, and remained stonily silent; he was going to make the Phantom boy say it.

And, after a period of frustrated staring-down, Danny did: “We need to get into your library.”

A beat of thoroughly unimpressed silence passed. “There is no way,” the Ghostwriter said in the measured tones of one forcibly compelled to explain something in a civil manner, “in heaven, hell, or the blasted dimension I just left, that I will allow that.”

“You’ve let Jazz in before!”

“ _Some people,_ ” he retorted, the frost in his statements thickening into ice, “are permitted to come on the basis that they actually show respect for the collection contained within my lair. You haven’t earned it, and I’m entitled to the same protective tendencies over my domain that you yourself possess for your hometown.”

Danny paused, effectively shut down by that for a minute. But then he rallied. “Then I’m within my rights to refuse entry to you unless you find some other way of helping us.”

Oh, and did he have to work to try and find his Happy Place after that remark. _No keyboard usage,_ he reminded himself after a hard breath out through his nose. _No using my powers on her family, even for this. I promised._

The writer devoted himself instead to doing as the boy suggested and pondering alternative methods to getting them all out of this situation with as little fighting as he could manage. Which would be a feat, considering that the personalities of all currently in the laboratory were clashing at best. Honestly he wished he could just fade out of sight for a while…but in present company that would likely be taken as an escape attempt, and he had no desire to be on the wrong end of any of the myriad Fenton weaponry on display all around.

With a sour taste in his mouth he eventually admitted, “I don’t particularly know what you expect of me. I have power over written words, yes, but I can’t simply magic you what you require out of nothing—I need to be in the presence of the material, and even then I need to know a bit about the subject matter that you are after. Because that’s what I assume you want me for?”

The two exchanged a glance. “I did hope you might have read something that could help us,” Sam said. “I was actually kind of banking on it, it seemed like the simplest solution to you two inevitably pushing each other’s buttons.”

“That’s not an unreasonable assumption,” he said, taking his glasses off briefly to rub his eyes. Gods, this was not how he’d expected this afternoon to go. “But even if I have read of this ghost, I don’t have photographic memory. And I’m _certainly_ not going back and forth from home bringing _anything_ to this place.”

He shuddered to think of what kind of experiments the Fenton parents would perform on his poor books should their son and his friend (significant other, according to rumor) happen to leave any of them lying about and vulnerable. The only member of the family he trusted wasn’t home and therefore any loans were out of the question.

Granted, he realized with some gritting of his teeth, had Jasmine been home he wouldn’t even be having this frankly ridiculous conversation. _Instead I’m stuck with the three D’s,_ he thought. _Distrustful, demanding Daniel._

For a long moment it seemed they may be at a true impasse.

“…Well,” Sam said, breaking the uncomfortable quiet, “what about Real World books? It’s not just ghost books that you have knowledge of, right?”

Writer wanted to sigh; he had to remind himself that only a few outside of himself knew the fact that he had all manner of books in his lair, by authors from both dimensions. “It’s not _impossible_ that we would be able to find what you need,” he acknowledged, “but I have to warn you that it’s not likely the human plane will contain such a specifically oriented text—at least not in this town, even considering the deeper relationship Amity Park has with its ghosts than most other places have.” He ruminated a minute. “The public libraries are a probable no-go, and I assume you’ve already exhausted any materials your high school might have…”

Danny was giving him a side-eye. “How do you know so much about our public libraries?”

“Ghost. Writer.” He punctuated each word with a forceful tap to his own chest. “Gods, boy, please for once _use_ your brain, if it’s not concussed beyond repair from all of the fighting you get into. My obsession is in my damned name, where do you _think_ some of my favorite places to visit are?”

“ _Anyway,_ ” Sam broke in, before Danny could fire back the retort he so clearly wanted to. She’d had a thoughtful look upon her face before the argument started, and brought forth an idea to get them back on track. “I know a couple of goth bookshops around town. If I took you to them do you think you could identify anything helpful, Ghostwriter?”

Perhaps it was from being addressed politely, and by his actual name instead of just pronouns, but Writer found himself willing to entertain that idea. “That seems as good a starting point as any,” he agreed—if in a somewhat tired way. He would indeed have to be guided, much as that put him out; he’d never bothered relearning landmarks around Amity save for the few places he liked to regularly visit.

“Well then let’s go and get this over with, then,” Danny said, leftover anger from being insulted making his voice gruff.

Before Writer could even begin to voice his distaste for the idea Sam was already telling her friend no. “Danny, you know that won’t work—you’ve got to stay here and keep guarding the portal. Until the maintenance is done on it it’s more susceptible to stuff getting out, and we can’t afford to let any more problems through right now than we already have with this new…enemy.”

The Ghostwriter said nothing, but in spite of her cordiality toward him he was rather leery of the way Sam had appeared to need time to settle on that last word as what she wanted to say regarding this other ghost. It was likely it meant nothing, of course, but he himself had been called ‘it’ and ‘thing’ often enough that even potential bandying about of dehumanizing terms grated on him.

Though, he supposed, it was true that he hadn’t been (strictly speaking) _human_ for a number of years. He was just one of a percentage that managed to look at least mostly like he had when he was alive.

Sam continued speaking, breaking into his musings. “Besides, Ghostwriter’s never caused any ruckus in the past year,” she was saying, “and Jazz’s practically given him carte blanche in going between the dimensions. If he was going to try something, I rather think he’d have done it by now. And anyway,” she added, “even if he did for some reason go off the handle, I bet I can shoot faster than he can type.”

He knew that last comment was for Danny’s benefit, he really did. But Writer was still quite offended at the suggestion that he’d start something without reason, and as well for the suggestion that his keyboard could be beaten in such an inelegant way.

He did, however, manage to keep those feelings to himself, and was proud when his voice came out only mildly curt when he made his response. “Well then, if that’s all.” He crossed his arms behind his back, the motion stiff, and began a shift into invisibility. “I’ll await you outside the building.”

Unwilling to catch potential sight of the Fenton parents, Writer made sure to phase through the household in such a manner that he did not pass through the family’s living space. After a brief and unpleasant go of moving about underneath the street he managed to come up above the sidewalk. A little bit of luck, he found then, was on his side, because the sunlight overhead was intense enough to be oppressive; there would be few if any passersby about underneath this malignant a heat-lamp. The fewer pedestrians to overhear him speaking with Sam, the better.

Still, as an extra precaution, he drifted into the nearest alleyway and briefly brought up his keyboard, tapping out the edict that _No sentient being, excluding those part of Team Phantom, will be able to detect my presence through equipment or any of their senses._ It was not, he reasoned, breaking his promise to Jasmine to ensure that he wasn’t going to scare anyone or end up as her parents’ next project.

“Some ‘welcome home’ that would be,” he breathed. “How did your meeting go? Oh _I’m_ fine, just fine. Don’t mind my lack of entrails, I’m sure they’re all accounted for and catalogued in those jars over there.”

Much as they’d grown fond of each other’s company, they neither of them were under the delusion that that would save him if Maddie Fenton caught any sort of hint that her daughter was fraternizing with a ghost. Locking eyes for a moment with his reflection in one of the monitors, the Ghostwriter shivered.

Business soon called, however. The Fenton home’s front door could be heard opening, and Writer dismissed the keyboard’s physical presence so he could float out to meet Sam as she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Exhibiting a bit of grace, the first thing she did (other than opening an umbrella against the sun’s harsh stare) was apologize to him. “I’m sorry for Danny’s attitude,” she said, with a long-suffering sort of sigh. But then, she followed up with the comment that, “He’s just being moody because he’s so stressed over this situation.”

The Ghostwriter’s temper flared arguably worse than the afternoon temperature. He’d been about ready to accept mollification from the apology, but even scraping the bottom of the barrel of his emotional reserves would not find him any sympathy for Danny Phantom. “Such an explanation does nothing for me,” he informed her flatly. “That boy down there _destroyed one of my manuscripts_ several years ago, and added insult to injury besides. If even Jasmine has not asked me to forgive him for that, then you have no business asking me to treat him with anything other than forced civility in the face of this new _moodiness_.”

This scathing proclamation was met only with rolled eyes and an infuriatingly exasperated inquiry as to how, then, he and Jazz could even associate with one another. The only reason Writer—by that point thoroughly incensed—even stayed in Sam’s vicinity was because they had him in a bind. No assisting them, and right back into the Ghost Zone he would go…without getting to see his friend.

He damned his own hide for ever mentioning the rule of lair sanctity to the Phantom boy.

_I could ask you the same question, Miss Manson,_ he retorted snippily in his own head as they began to head off. _Never mind what fault Jazz might find with me or my opinions—how many of her brother’s do you take into consideration and look past on a daily basis?_

Because that’s what it came down to, he thought, spending the time on the way to the shop in two ways: listening to Sam’s quiet rattling-off of details of Danny’s new enemy, and ruminating on flaws—both his own and others’. He admittedly didn’t have as much experience with social interaction as some, but he’d come to gather that that was what one did with people close to you: let slide what innocuous behaviors you could, and help identify and work toward changing the more problematic ones.

Hence, he contemplated with no small amount of vehemence, how much it meant right then that he hadn’t even entertained the thought of following through with any impulses of using his keyboard on anyone lately. But—and that realization came with bitterness—what would that fact matter to Sam? Someone, in other words, near-inflexibly used to taking Phantom’s side?

When they actually arrived at the hole-in-the-wall bookstore, the Ghostwriter made a conscious effort toward calming himself down. In part because he didn’t want his negative aura to potentially affect the books (which would prove a very real danger for anyone in the range of the city block), but more because the precise reason he’d wanted out of the Ghost Zone in the first place was that he’d wanted a simple, nice day outside of the endless green-black. ‘Simple’ was by now out of his hopes of receiving, but from here on any lack of ‘nice’ could be said to be on him—it was possible for a day to be what you made it, and in a moment of self-clarity he reprimanded himself for his tendency toward self-sabotage in the form of grudge-holding. Granted, his were often entirely _valid_ grudges, but still…

The affair of moving around in the shop itself turned out to be a strange mixture of fascinating and irritating. During the times he was actually permitted to drift about the stacks on his own, he found himself very intrigued by their contents and the culture implied by them. However those times were few and far between, as most of their stint was taken up by the Manson girl hissing questions and requests for clarifications at him—in direct spite of the fact that he’d told her more than once that he’d set things such that she could speak with him normally. Operating clandestinely was a habit that died hard, apparently.

After listening to yet another whispered-out, dead-end “find” of a paragraph that she’d dug up, the writer briefly considered going over to the shop-keep and waving his hands in front of her face just to prove that Sam needn’t keep her voice at the level that one would normally reserve for standing about in a hospice. But no—again he reminded himself to rein in his pettiness, and instead just explained (with something that could even pass for patience) why the passage didn’t connect to their issue after all. “I know the entity that one’s referring to, and it’s definitely not your antagonist. They’re serving an afterlife sentence in Walker’s prison.”

Sam quirked a brow. “Afterlife sentence?” she repeated, deadpan.

“Too long running such an establishment gives one a twisted sense of whimsy.” His mutter was a tad dark, and thankfully went without further question.

“Which section should we search next, then?”

Writer took a good look around, feeling it out. The books had woken up bit by bit the longer he’d been among them; some of them had jiggled about minutely on their shelves when they’d sensed his and Sam’s purpose, offering up their information, and they’d systematically eliminated all but a few of the potentialities.

“Let’s give this shelf a try,” he murmured, floating to one of the last sections they’d had yet to touch.

The Ghostwriter could feel the disappointment lingering in the many tomes they left behind them, and he spared a reassuring glance over his shoulder before picking up any others. _Poor things. Not to worry, you all did a wonderful job._

From what he’d gathered perusing them, most of the items in the shop were just happy to even have the opportunity for attention. Amity Park’s goth population was not apparently overly large, and as such the books didn’t tend to get much notice at all save from the proprietor (who was good to them, but after a few years in some cases was still somewhat stale company). He hadn’t been able to help, therefore, spending probably more time than strictly necessary with each of them, even after seeing enough to know they weren’t going to contain the clue they were after. The Ghostwriter rather suspected that someone who didn’t know him well might laugh at him for such considerations, but he was heartfelt in not wanting to leave any of them out.

“Let’s go row by row with these last two shelves,” he suggested to Sam. “I’ll take the top section.”

The two of them proceeded quietly for the next half hour. They’d finally reached an equilibrium point wherein they could exchange information without being snippy with one another, which was nice—away from the distractions and nattering of her two best friends Sam was actually pleasantly studious, so they got along fairly well from an academic point of view. It was not, in fact, terribly dissimilar to how his friendship with Jasmine had begun, although it had to be said that Writer felt connection to her on more levels than merely having a shared interest in research. Idly he wondered how her meeting was going…

There was a book one shelf down from his current point of inspection that was rattling particularly insistently. “Patience,” he counseled, peering down at it a moment to let it know he had in fact noted its eagerness.

“You sound like a teacher.” Sam briefly glanced up from her own current book as she made the comment, a curious look in her curiously colored eyes. “Giving the other students a chance to answer your question before calling on the kid who always has their hand raised.”

The analogy made him blink; in point of fact it was his brother who was the teacher.

When he told her as much, she gave her own mildly surprised blink. “You have a brother?”

The Ghostwriter shrugged. “There’s no rule that says that only one member of each family can die and manifest as a ghost,” he pointed out. “We passed a few years apart from each other, but Randy has his obsession as much as I have mine. And…well, here we are.”

“He never tries to leave the Ghost Zone, though?”

“No, never.” He’d turned his attention back to the volumes he still had left to peruse, flicking through a few tables of contents as they spoke. “After our respective adjustment periods to being ghosts, neither of us were particularly inclined toward returning here. The visit in which I met Jasmine was only the second time I’d ever crossed back over. That was for a spot of research for a novel, as I recall.”

“And the first was when…” Sam trailed off, thankfully realizing without help that the first was in the aftermath of his Christmas poem being vaporized, and that it would be unwise to bring up the topic once more.

“Mm,” was all he said, delicately closing that aspect of the discussion. Then, finally, he turned his attention to the still-shaking book he’d yet to look through. Now that the rest of the shop had mostly calmed, its movements were particularly stand-out. “Yes, yes,” he told it kindly, picking it out from between its fellows. “You’re going to measure on the Richter Scale at this rate, goodness…”

Since it seemed so confident, Writer made sure to give it the most thorough check he’d yet done. And chapter seven…well, that actually seemed promising. He thumbed through the pages until he arrived at the correct section, and behind his glasses his eyes scanned rapidly back and forth, searching and absorbing.

“…Sam,” he began after a minute, “this might actually be the one you need.”

“Really? Give it here.”

Writer handed it down to her, pointing out the requisite passage and allowing her to peruse it for herself. It wasn’t long before she was agreeing. “I’m gonna call Danny.”

While she was on the phone, the Ghostwriter went ahead and gave each of the last few unread volumes a courtesy look-through—he couldn’t have stood to leave the shop before easing their crestfallen senses of worth. He’d just about finished with the last one when Sam paused in her conversation and turned around to speak to him.

“Hey, so I guess Jazz is done with whatever interview she had going on today?” she relayed, palm briefly covering the mouthpiece of her phone. “Danny said that _she_ said to tell you she’ll be at your usual table at the library on the corner of Lowell.”

His demeanor instantly brightened.

The Ghostwriter and Sam parted ways from one another after she, for appearances sake and further research both, purchased their leather-bound tactical advantage. Once he’d taken to the sky he found it a profound relief to finally be in the sun for a time again; bookstores were—to indulge in a pun—one of his favorite haunts, but he far and away preferred going to one of his own volition rather than be shanghaied into the visit.

When he arrived at the library he didn’t give any thought to the front door, sparing himself that sort of human entrance in favor of simply descending straight in through the roof. Intangibility was _such_ a time saver. He caught sight of Jazz immediately—her head of vibrant orange hair was very, very difficult to miss.

Though, he mused as he glided to their table, in a different sense he supposed he had missed it this afternoon.

Although by his keyboard’s edict he was not hidden from her sight, Jazz still didn’t notice him immediately as he approached. Her concentration was focused on a manila folder, which lay open and document-filled on the tabletop in front of her. She was at that moment poring over a passage of what looked like fine-print.

“Looking over a contract?” he asked lightly, by way of greeting. “Are we taking that as a good sign?”

She jumped up, grinning and with eyes a-gleam. “Writer! Hi! And yes, oh my gosh yes—they want to publish my paper!”

“That’s fantastic!” _I knew it,_ he thought as he settled into the chair opposite her, personal satisfaction eliciting a wide grin from him. _No one in their right mind would refuse her work._

“I know!” she gushed. “And it’ll only get me even more opportunities, I already captured the interests of one professor enough that she thinks she can help me successfully apply for a research grant. Ah, it’s all so exciting!” 

She actually rolled around a little in her seat at that, and the Ghostwriter found himself chuckling a bit—not because he found her enthusiasm something to be made fun of, but that it was just quietly delightful to see her so happy.

After a time, though, her smile faded somewhat. Resting her chin against her palm, she considered him a minute. And then, meaningfully—“And then there’s _your_ day.”

Writer’s expression sobered in tandem. They stared at one another for a beat, and then spoke simultaneously:

“You will not _believe_ what they had me do.”

“I cannot _believe_ what they made you do.”


End file.
